<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>We Burn Daylight by ShadesinBlue</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452507">We Burn Daylight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesinBlue/pseuds/ShadesinBlue'>ShadesinBlue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Guns N' Roses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Elemental Magic, Hurt/Comfort, Invisibility, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:34:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,589</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesinBlue/pseuds/ShadesinBlue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every hero has an origin story, and every team has a beginning.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Duff McKagan/Axl Rose, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Steven Adler/Izzy Stradlin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Origins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was posted on another site about half a year ago, and I decided to move it here and finish it up. I hope you can enjoy!</p>
<p>This work is entirely fiction. I don't own any of the characters in this story, and I made no profit from this piece.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Axl has never thought of himself as something special but he’s always known he was different. </p>
<p>Growing up in the trailer park never allowed him the luxury of idealism. He was raised on microwave dinners and off-brand cola, broken air conditioning in the mid-summer heat of July, cockroaches crawling along the shoddy furniture and into the seams of Axl’s life. A latch-key kid, troubled teenager, high school dropout on a one way track to the streets. Axl wasn’t gifted stability, didn’t have a home life to encourage positive traits or goals or dreams. What he had was a mostly absent mother and an asshole stepfather who spent most of his time pissed or piss drunk, using Axl’s face as his personal punching bag. </p>
<p>As for his real father, Axl’s never met him. He’d been gifted a blurry picture as an afterthought on his thirteenth birthday, clear enough to determine he’d inherited the bastards eyes but obviously not his talent for disappearing. There’d been a time when Axl had entertained the idea of going looking, tracking down anyone with a matching surname in a near radius; reality had hit soon after, along with tenth grade, missed electric bills, and the realization that Axl wouldn’t ever be the type of person to go chasing ghosts. </p>
<p>Most of his time after dropping out had been spent working at the shitty, dead-end factory job he’d gained by lying about his age. Otherwise, he could be found anywhere but at home, loitering at street corners, twenty four hour diner booths, gas station parking lots smoking stolen cigarettes. He’d carried a pocket sized map with him at all times, covered in Sharpie circles detailing all the places he could run, the bus routes and highways that could carry him far away from his hometown. </p>
<p>Axl had always known he wasn’t meant to rot in that town, wasn’t intended to be the person his life was shaping him to become. The sensation he’d felt since childhood, buried deep in his bones and tying together into a knot in his chest, tight and thrumming with what suspiciously felt like power. He used to think his stepfather could glimpse it too, that all-consuming feeling. That’s why he’d always looked at Axl funny, called him evil. Wrong.</p>
<p>Maybe that was true. Maybe something twisted and corrupt had taken root inside Axl’s body but even so it had never been his intention to cause the odd happenings that occurred whenever he became furious or upset—the sink flooding for hours after he’d been locked in his room, gales of wind shaking the trailer when he’d argue with his stepfather. The moments when pressure would build behind Axl’s eyes, skin burning, the taste of iron permeating his mouth until he’d gag. Those times, Axl had wondered exactly what kind of different he was. He’d dismissed those thoughts as quickly as they’d come. Guys like him didn’t get powers, weren’t granted an easy way out. They certainly weren’t heroes. </p>
<p>Everything changed when he’d turned eighteen. Axl was arguing with his stepdad over yet another thing that wasn’t his fucking fault but he’d been blamed for anyway. Axl’s always had a smart mouth and he’s never known when to shut it. Screaming some smart-ass remark in retaliation had felt so good until the punch to his face, hit hard enough to send him sprawling onto the floor of the trailer. There’d been the tiniest drop of blood oozing into the matted carpet, crimson spilt from Axl’s throbbing split lip. </p>
<p>Staring at his own blood, Axl had felt something within him, something that’d been subdued and shoved down and swallowed, snap. Fire had raced from his clenched fists, spreading up the walls and leaving singe marks in the carpet. The flames burnt out in seconds but blackened streaks of wallpaper left enough proof to convince him he wasn’t going insane. </p>
<p>The minutes after are lost but Axl does remember packing frantically, shoving worn clothing into a duffel bag as his stepfather screamed at him to get out and never come back. He’d stood looming in the middle of the trailer, incandescent with rage and hate, face purpling with the force of his yelling. Axl also remembers the fear; the way his stepfather’s body had bowed away from him as he’d brushed past on the way out, the minor flinch when Axl had last glanced his way, how he hadn’t touched Axl again. </p>
<p>Axl had hitch-hiked to L.A, the city like a siren’s call beckoning him to the sleazy streets and sunshine. He’d always figured California would be end game no matter how he ended up there. Within the first month, Axl secured a job at the local record store, peddling music to hipsters and brand store punks with varying tastes. He’d bought his own apartment after a year of saving, one with modern appliances and hardwood floors he cleans every Sunday night because he refuses to embrace filth and decay ever again in his life. Coming home to his empty bedroom, dining room table set for one, is nice. It’s fulfilling and freeing. It’s also pretty damn lonely but he’d rather die than admit to that. </p>
<p>His strange abilities haven’t bothered him much. There’s the occasional downpour when he falls into a mood, bedding catching fire as he stews in anger, the ground sprouting vines underneath his feet if he’s carelessly wrapped in his own thoughts. Still, it’s been nothing monumental, nothing ground-breaking or earth-shaking, and Axl prefers it that way. He’s grateful for whatever inside him gave him the strength to break free from home but he’s content with a normal life. Axl is happy with quiet and peace. </p>
<p>Which is why this current moment, finding him trapped against a wall in the back alley of some new dive bar as two assholes he’s just mopped the floor with in poker confront him about getting their crumpled twenties back, is really killing his vibe. </p>
<p>“Listen, I’ll say it once real slow.” Axl pauses, takes a slow drag from his cigarette. He’s pissed this is happening but more so that he’s probably going to waste a brand new smoke in favor of fighting these shitheads off. “I won fair and square. That means it’s my cash now. Mine. And ya’ know what? I’m lookin’ forward to spending it.” </p>
<p>“You little bitch,” the tallest one seethes, stepping closer to wind a fist into the collar of Axl’s leather jacket. He frowns down at the man’s dirty fingers smearing shit all over his new clothes. “Give us our money back or we’ll kick your skinny ass.”</p>
<p>“Blow me,” Axl replies, flicks cigarette ash into the dude’s face for good measure. </p>
<p>“When we’re finished with you,” the second guy moves close enough that Axl can make out the missing patches in his peach fuzz beard. “We’ll let you blow us.” And then they leer at Axl in that familiar way which sets his blood to boiling. </p>
<p>“Touch me and you’ll be eatin’ the gravel in this fuckin’ alley,” he spits out. Axl tries to keep calm, reign in the flood of fury coursing through his veins, unfurling deep in his stomach. A ringing starts up in his ears and he can taste blood in the back of his mouth. </p>
<p>“Yeah, right” Peach Fuzz turns to his friend, smirking. “Little guy thinks he can take us.” He punctuates the words by shoving Axl hard into the brick wall behind him. “Come on then, pretty boy. Show us what you got.”</p>
<p>The men don’t seem to register the sudden drop in temperature, the frigid air pooling around them. Their breath’s puffing out into white clouds despite the July heat doesn’t faze them. Axl’s hands dripping ice, crackling with sub-zero power that billows and drips onto the now frozen asphalt at his feet does, however, seem to grab their attention. Distantly, Axl watches with a sick pleasure as their faces turn shades paler, lips tinting blue due to the waves of freezing cold radiating from his skin. </p>
<p>“What the hell?” The men trip over their own feet, stumble, stare, run away. Axl can hear them sprinting down the street, shrieking their heads off as they flee. </p>
<p>He takes a step forward, fully intending to give chase. Power lurches inside of him, building to a crescendo until he can barely see or hear anything other than the red pounding anger obscuring his vision. Axl wants to find them, wants to make them pay, make them hurt—he wants the fuckers to bleed at his hands. </p>
<p>A hand closes over his shoulder and his breath leaves him. It feels like he’s been socked in the stomach and he staggers a bit before turning on his heel. The motion makes him dizzy and he nearly falls over but the hand steadies him. Only then does Axl realize that he can no longer feel his powers. The overwhelming sensation has deserted him, leaving him empty and reeling. His hands are bare, no longer covered in crackling ice. Blinking, Axl looks up.</p>
<p>Standing in front of him is a gangly blond around his own age, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. When he catches Axl’s eye, the guy drops his hand back to his side, takes a nervous step back. Axl watches him shift his weight, fury giving way to amusement as the blond’s eyes dart from place to place like he can’t manage to meet Axl’s gaze. </p>
<p>The guy opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again and speaks in the softest voice Axl’s ever heard. </p>
<p>“Hey, I’m Duff. I think we might have something in common.”</p>
<p>+</p>
<p>Duff is used to being invisible to others. </p>
<p>Since childhood he’s always been easily forgettable, last picked for the team, lost to the back of the room, spoken over and overlooked.  Part of it is being the eighth son of a relatively poor family. He’s no stranger to hand me down clothes big enough to drown in, spare mattresses shoved into corners, leftovers and donated charity boxes he got last pick of. It wasn’t long before Duff learned the best way to be of any use was to make room for others—to squeeze into himself, hold his breath, become used to people squinting at the mention of his name as they tried to place him despite Duff having been there all along. </p>
<p>Duff resigned himself to a life of being looked through. ‘The Invisible Boy’ he nicknamed himself because he had no other friends to do it for him. It was funny in a way, or at least he learned to laugh at the joke even if he was the punchline. </p>
<p>But Duff’s mother always warned her children to be careful of what they claimed as their own, the words they used to describe themselves down to their core, the people they pretended to be. Words have power is what he’d grown up hearing. Thoughts and beliefs take on lives and become reality if not treated with caution. </p>
<p>It came as no real surprise to Duff when he’d started losing patches of himself to plain sight. The moments when eyes pass by him before snapping back confused, movement is ignored, words are treated like the whisperings of ghosts. The times when his parents would blink at him like he’d just entered a room despite being their beside them for hours, when his family would move as if they could step right through him only to run into the solid presence of his body they’d later swear hadn’t been visible a second ago. </p>
<p>Duff grew up on comics. He’d read the stories, studied them with a devotion usually only seen in church or between lovers. It hadn’t escaped his notice that he’d been thrust into the center of an origin story, able to watch it all unfold with time. Powers were something that happened to charming guys, smart guys, guys far more capable than he’d ever been or would ever be. </p>
<p>Still, he had them. So, Duff learned to practice. He figured out how to turn transparent with nothing more than a thought, how to touch objects and blur them from sight, how to harness and hold the slippery feel of his abilities coiled around his bones. It hadn’t taken long just as it wasn’t much time before Duff realized he could do far more than manipulate visibility. </p>
<p>It occurred to him after numerous incidents with lighting and electricity flaring or short-circuiting under his touch that perhaps energy manipulation might be a gift of his. Testing his theories proved his suspicions; however, he couldn’t manage to do much more than amplify or neutralize pre-existing energy sources.</p>
<p>Duff found it cool because in some aspects he was above average. He was different and that was more than he’d ever expected to be able to say about himself. In the end, though, Duff knows that different does not equal extraordinary, just as powers didn’t make him special or super. Invisibility and manipulating lights weren’t the kinds of abilities people found interesting. They were the sorts of abilities found in sidekicks or canceled runs of a failed superhero deemed too underpowered to really be anything more than slightly enhanced.  His newfound gifts weren’t going to change his life, weren’t going to make his parents notice him or allow him to save the day. They enabled him to further shrink into the background, draw layers and build walls between himself and others more than he’d already done. </p>
<p>After turning eighteen, it was a simple choice to leave home and not look back. Duff had packed a bag and left a note on the fridge, wondering if his parents would even miss him after he’d gone. He’d taken a bus straight to L.A, the place where people went to be seen. Duff didn’t have misconceptions that he’d be one of those people but he did love the sun and the beaches, so he settled down and stayed. </p>
<p>A year of blending into the streets of California, molding himself to fit between the spaces of busy, important people, and Duff hadn’t found a purpose other than to exist and pay his bills on time. That is, until he met Axl. </p>
<p>Coincidence had carried him to the bar that night. He’d wanted to drink and forget being forgotten, hidden behind the barstools and mugs of cheap beer. Duff was nursing a bottle when the strongest wave of energy he’d ever encountered swept through his body. His head had snapped to the side, following the telltale threads of power like a puppet on a string until his vision had focused on the redhead stalking out back, oblivious to the two goons following him. </p>
<p>In a daze, Duff stumbled after the pulsating, throbbing mass of energy bundled into one person. He’d watched from behind knowing he wouldn’t be seen. Duff remembers the blinding display of power beckoning him to step forward, to place a hand on the guy’s shoulder while he’d been vibrating with a rage that sent his energy signature spiraling higher than Duff could conceive. He couldn’t resist, led by the flares of energy that had collapsed at his touch. Duff can blame his reaction on the power but isn’t sure what possessed him to introduce himself. </p>
<p>Axl, as Duff learned he was called, had dragged Duff back to his place. Duff thought maybe he should worry about whether or not he was about to be killed but all Axl had done after slamming the door behind them was turn to Duff, expression expectant, and demand to be shown exactly what Duff had implied in the alley. </p>
<p>Duff did. He felt his body fade, saw Axl’s face intently watching him. Duff had flashed the lights on and off, played with the electricity until Axl’s television was blaring noise before shutting off abruptly. When he’d phased back into sight, Duff waited for Axl to shrug at his little party trick. After all, this was a guy who could really be something, someone with more power than they probably knew what to do with.</p>
<p>But Axl had stared at Duff, awestruck, tone shaking as he whispered, “You’re amazing.” And when it was said like that, Duff believed him.</p>
<p>Duff likes Axl. He likes the way Axl can sit for hours in silence or talk fast enough that his sentences blur together like never-ending paragraphs of thought. Duff likes the way Axl sings in the shower without shame, the determined way he struggles through books even when Duff knows they’ve started to bore him, the smirk he gets whenever something amuses him. Duff enjoys visiting Axl at work and pouring over records while Axl explains why each artist is important and why Duff should listen to them right now, no excuses. </p>
<p>Most of all, Duff likes the way Axl looks at him. He looks at Duff out of the corner of his eye, from underneath red lashes, while laughing at whatever lame joke Duff has said. Axl doesn’t peer through him, doesn’t forget Duff is in the room, never ignores or forgets anything Duff has told him no matter how insignificant the detail. Duff can’t help the warmth he feels whenever he’s invisible and Axl manages to find him, eyes tracking bare air until resting on the spot Duff is hidden, his hands feeling the way until they rest on Duff’s arms and he’s found. </p>
<p>Duff thinks he easily could waste time with Axl, could spend hours and days and years watching him and being watched back. </p>
<p>Which finds them currently in Axl’s kitchen, Duff bent over the counter and studying Axl flipping pancakes with a smug smile. Axl might not admit it but he loves cooking and he loves having his own space to do it whenever he pleases. </p>
<p>“I think that one was a little sloppy,” Duff remarks. Axl shoots him an exaggerated look of offense, one hand resting on his hip as the other continues flipping the pancake with small, lazy jerks of his wrist. </p>
<p>“I’ll have you know that was my best one yet, McKagan.” Axl opens his mouth to say more but snaps it shut when he misjudges the next flip, sending the half-cooked pancake flopping onto the floor. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath while Duff snickers into the palm of his hand. </p>
<p>“Hey, you got any lessons tonight?” </p>
<p>A groan escapes Axl’s lips, red hair falling in his face as he scrubs the mess off of his floor with a wad of paper towel. “Unfortunately, yeah.” Axl has a second job giving piano lessons which Duff found hilarious until Axl had forced him to sit in and watch the skilled way his fingers glided from key to key. </p>
<p>“Fortunate, really, seeing as it pays the bills.”</p>
<p> Axl nods, nudging the lid of his trash can closed. “Yeah, otherwise I’d have to depend on your lazy ass to support us.”</p>
<p>Duff rolls his eyes, grinning. “I don’t actually live here, ya’ know.”</p>
<p>Raising an eyebrow, Axl leans on the counter opposite Duff. “Really? Then why is it you’re always here, huh?” At the bright red flush Duff can feel spreading down his neck, Axl’s eyes soften even as he continues to smirk. </p>
<p>“I’m kiddin’, you know that, Duffy. I like you being here.” Axl’s eyes shine soft grey in the kitchen lighting as they search Duff’s, and suddenly his throat is dry and aching. It’s an absolute relief when the doorbell rings. </p>
<p>“I’ll get it,” Duff scurries to the door, grateful for the chance to avoid making more of a fool of himself than he no doubt already has. Why Axl chooses to hang out with him is an honest mystery. </p>
<p>The door swings open and for a second all Duff can see is hair, a mass of curls clustered and frizzy from the summer heat. Then, a hand pushes them aside to reveal a crooked grin and sunglasses. </p>
<p>“Hiya,” the stranger says, saluting with two fingers. “Name’s Slash but you can call me Slash. Tough shit if you don’t like it.”</p>
<p>Duff gapes in shock, jaw dropping further when Slash brushes past him and into the hallway of Axl’s apartment, head turning to study the interior with interest. </p>
<p>“Oh,” and he turns back to Duff, hooking a thumb towards the door. “I left my bags right outside, can you grab those for me?” Duff reacts on autopilot, grabbing the backpack and duffel propped against the outside wall to drag inside. He curses himself immediately after for being so pliant. </p>
<p>He turns into the living room to find a furious Axl sizing up Slash like he’s considering the best way to maim the intruder. Axl’s gaze snaps to him as soon as Duff enters the room and he’s barely had time to blink before Axl is standing in front of him, shielding Duff with his body. </p>
<p>“Who in the hell are you?” Axl’s energy is skyrocketing, no doubt mimicking his frantic pulse. </p>
<p>“I already told Blondie. I’m Slash, and word around town is that you guys are just what I’ve been lookin’ for.”</p>
<p>“Word around town?” Axl scrapes the words out from behind gritted teeth. Duff feels the air around them sweltering with heat and prepares to either neutralize Axl or ramp his power up, depending on Slash’s next words. </p>
<p>Slash shrugs, the sleeve of his flannel shirt falling off of his shoulder. “Kay, maybe not the town. Maybe I sorta, kinda read your minds.” He flashes another lopsided grin, light reflecting off his shades. “Don’t be mad?”</p>
<p>Duff knows shit’s about to hit the fan when he feels Axl’s entire body turn into one rigid line of tension. “You did what?” The words are deadly calm, and if it weren’t for the apartment shaking around them or the flames sparking to life at Axl’s fingertips, Duff might think he wasn’t about to fly off the handle. As it is, Duff knows better and he can taste the raw power flowing off of Axl’s skin. </p>
<p>Slash doesn’t appear scared. If anything he looks intrigued, at least the part of his face not hidden behind hair and glasses. His head cocks to the side as he studies Axl, upper lip curling into a smirk. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. I can definitely work with that.” </p>
<p>Before Duff can ask what he means, a burst of energy large enough to rival Axl’s surges to life, tethered to Slash. He watches the furniture rise from the ground and slowly start to spiral in mid-air as Slash twirls his fingers in small circles. The floor is lost from beneath him as Duff feels his own feet leave the floor. Axl is growling low in his throat, fists shaking as his fire starts to spread.</p>
<p>Duff knows this is about to get ugly fast. There’s far too much energy in this enclosed space, and he knows how volatile Axl’s powers are. They could all be burned alive or crushed under a collapsing building if Duff doesn’t stop this now. Reaching out with the slick tendrils of his ability, Duff finds the root of Slash’s and Axl’s energy, locates the exact spot to clamp down like a gust of wind snuffing out a candle’s flame. The furniture promptly crashes back to the ground and Duff winces, hoping the downstairs neighbours won’t be too pissed about the noise. Duff falls back down as well but Axl’s hands are already around his waist and arm, steadying him for the breath of a second before he lets go. </p>
<p>Slash is laughing, curls bouncing as he moves towards them. “Dude, you’re like a lightning rod, that’s sick. Can I see?” He reaches a hand out towards Duff’s wrist. </p>
<p>Axl smacks it away without hesitation, voice venomous as he snarls, “You touch him and I’ll fucking burn you alive.”</p>
<p>Duff stares in disbelief but Slash only glances between them before a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. He throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender, stepping back out of Axl’s swinging range. </p>
<p>“My bad, didn’t know you guys were a package deal.”</p>
<p>Duff nearly chokes, sputtering out a garbled, “We are not—”</p>
<p>“It’s none of your damn business what we are,” Axl cuts in. His shoulder is burning hot where it brushes against Duff’s. </p>
<p>“I mean, I just wanna get to know the people I’m gonna be living with, ya’ know?”</p>
<p>It’s Axl’s turn to choke on his words, face incredulous as he searches for the precise way he wants to tell Slash to fuck off. Duff reaches out a calming hand, places it on the same shoulder he had months ago outside the bar. </p>
<p>“Why don’t we talk about it over breakfast?”</p>
<p>Axl whips his head around, meets Duff’s steady gaze. His eyes drift back to Slash, then to Duff, and back again until finally settling on Duff with an intense scrutiny he hasn’t experienced from Axl since that first night. Whatever Axl is searching for he finds because the tight set of his shoulders loosens and with a final sneer at Slash, he turns and storms into the kitchen to finish making pancakes. </p>
<p>Duff pauses before looking back to Slash who’s got his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, lips twitching like he’s struggling not to laugh. </p>
<p>“So what are we eatin’? I’m fucking starved.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Genesis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Izzy shuts the door, wastes no time in emptying his flask as he sits on the tub’s edge and talks himself into leaving.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Izzy won’t ever make the mistake of calling himself a good guy.</p>
<p>He was born to lose or to die, maybe to destroy, and there’s not a damn second he doesn’t remember that his hands are stained dirty. </p>
<p>Izzy had a home, once. He’d been no stranger to empty houses and the empty promises of a well meaning, overworked parent. He’d known the exact sound his voice made echoing off bare bedroom walls, the spots in the ceiling sagging under years of ignored water damage, cigarette smoke curling around his wrists like the world’s cheapest cologne. </p>
<p>Izzy had a best friend, too.</p>
<p>He doesn’t have anything anymore. </p>
<p>He tries his best not to think about it, to concentrate on anything and everything besides his fucked past because Izzy knows there’s only so much self-hate he can heap onto himself before the fissures of his mind crack for good. </p>
<p>In this moment, Izzy brushes his unwanted thoughts away from the dark crevices of his mind like cobwebs, picks them from where they cling to his clothes like crumbs to sweep them onto the ground. He chainsmokes his way through the remaining cigarettes left in his pack, leaning against the crooked parking spot sign embedded in the grass. </p>
<p>“Those things will kill you.”</p>
<p> Izzy sighs, breathes out a cloud of smog in the direction of his new companion. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Maybe that sorta shit turns me on.”</p>
<p>“Lung cancer?”</p>
<p>Izzy’s view of the sky is overcast by a sudden shadow looming over him with cotton candy blond hair, damn huge grin still plastered onto his round face. </p>
<p>“Yeah, Stevie, ya’ caught me out.” Steven grins wider if possible, plops down beside Izzy and shifts until their shoulders are pressed tight together. </p>
<p>“I know,” Steven says at Izzy’s look, holding his hands up in a placating gesture and wiggling his fingers as he rolls his eyes. “You don’t like to be touched. But technically we aren’t.” </p>
<p>It’s true. Izzy has on his regular denim jacket, threadbare as it is, sleeves rolled down to touch the ends of his leather gloves. Steven, meanwhile, has been toting around an ancient looking bomber jacket weighed down in patches, oversized and hanging to mid-thigh. Izzy isn’t sure how he hasn’t passed out from the heat but figures it’s better not to mention.</p>
<p>“How old are you, anyways?” Figures he should’ve asked the moment he found Steven shivering on that street corner flinching at shadows, but turns out Izzy has a heart after all and was more concerned with getting the kid warm than covering his own skin. </p>
<p>“Same age as you, I’d guess.”</p>
<p>Izzy eyes him, lets his cigarette hang limp between his fingers. “You don’t know how old I am, kid.”</p>
<p>Steven snorts, wrinkles his nose in a habit Izzy has become familiar with over the drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles. “Definitely not old enough to be calling me kid, that’s for sure, dude.”</p>
<p>“How would you know?” Izzy challenges, posture shifting to face Steven head on.</p>
<p>“Look at you,” Steven marks the statement by motioning to Izzy’s face. That’s another thing, kid doesn’t know how to say shit without using his hands to make a point. “You’ve got a young face, wide open. Soft eyes, too.”</p>
<p>“I do fuckin’ not,” Izzy snaps. He doesn’t. He made sure to iron the telltale signs of loneliness out of his expressions a long time ago. </p>
<p>“Sure.” Steven shrugs, grins at Izzy’s death glare. “Listen, I don’t wanna fight with you, so let’s agree to disagree, okay?”</p>
<p>“Whatever,” Izzy mutters. He stares at his cigarette, flicks it to the ground where it smolders in the green. “I’m twenty one.”</p>
<p>Steven hums, thoughtful. His shoulder nudges Izzy’s as he replies, “Nineteen. See? Not a kid.”</p>
<p>He sounds so childishly smug that Izzy can’t help but let slip a rare smile. “Then why am I playing babysitter and takin’ you to meet these fuckers?” </p>
<p>“You’re not—” He scowls, but his face evens out into a smile when Izzy laughs at his indignation. “Okay, very funny. You’re a riot, Izz, really, you’ve got me in stitches.”</p>
<p>“Where’s the lie?” Izzy asks, sly and smirking just to watch Steven grumble and smile and flush pink. </p>
<p>“Well, much as I enjoy this,” Steven stands and holds a hand out, easy as that like there’s no reason Izzy shouldn’t take it. “We should head up.”</p>
<p>He ignores the offered help, stares at the dark fabric of his jeans. “You positive this is a good idea, sunshine?”</p>
<p>“Course I am.” Steven’s voice is light, easy, sure in a way Izzy begrudgingly respects. “Don’t you want to meet people like us?”</p>
<p>“I don’t need people, Stevie.” Izzy feels the dark wave of thoughts stir and viciously shoves them back down along with the acid rising in his throat. “This is all for you.” </p>
<p>“I’m not gonna stay without you, Izz.” </p>
<p>“You are.” Izzy’s hands are clenched in the grass, and he can feel the disgusting venomous part of himself uncoil, rearing it’s greedy head at Steven’s words. “I’m no good, you’ll be better off.”</p>
<p>“Are you always this hard on yourself?”</p>
<p>“You ain’t got a clue.” Izzy glances up to find Steven frowning, eyes locked on the ground around Izzy. Following his gaze, dreading what he’ll find while simultaneously knowing, Izzy still blanches at the ring of rotting, dead grass surrounding him. Who was he kidding, the gloves are fucking useless.</p>
<p>“I think I’m beginning to,” Steven says. His words are solemn, no judgement in them, and Izzy hates him for a second before promptly circling round and hating himself. </p>
<p>“C’mon then, let's go.” He pushes himself to his feet, brushes his gloves off on the sides of his pants like that will erase the taint of what he’s done, what he can do. </p>
<p>Steven falls into step, silent beside him. Izzy studies his surroundings, sneers at the freshly painted walls and somewhat decent design of the building. He stops on the third floor, scanning doors for the correct apartment number. </p>
<p>“Here it is. Ready to meet some freaks?” </p>
<p>Steven opens his mouth, probably to tell Izzy he’s being rude in that gentle, amused way he says everything. The door slams open before he can get the words out, revealing a mound of curls Izzy thinks might be hiding a person. Blinking, Izzy has a moment to observe him when a blur of red streaks around the corner and comes to a halt right behind the first guy.</p>
<p>“Aw, fuck me,” the redhead snaps, promptly followed by a sharp gust of wind that nearly blows both Izzy and Steven off of their feet. Steven grabs hold of Izzy’s elbow to steady himself and Izzy tries his hardest not to flinch at the contact. </p>
<p>“Hate to say I told ya’ so but here we are,” comes from behind the mass of hair which is pushed out of the way to reveal a half-smile and shades. “I’m Slash, and this here is Axl, but he answers to asshole just fine.”</p>
<p>Axl levels Slash with a withering look that Izzy himself is impressed by. He frowns in their direction before sighing and motioning them inside. “Get in before I change my mind. You look like lost dogs beggin’ for scraps out there.”</p>
<p>Izzy shuffles in behind a bouncing Steven who shrugs out of his heavy jacket, folding it over the sofa they pass in the living room. He can’t help but eye the baggy shirt dwarfing Steven’s small frame. He does his best not to wonder what Steven might be trying to hide. </p>
<p>A prickling sensation at the back of his neck turns Izzy’s head in time to catch the lanky blond emerging from thin air, smiling sheepishly as he rubs his neck and nods at a gaping Steven. </p>
<p>“Hey, I’m Duff. I woulda met you at the door but Axl said I should hide in case you were both mass murderers.”</p>
<p>“How do you know we ain’t?” </p>
<p>Slash’s mouth quirks up. “Cause I read your mind just in case. Can’t be too careful nowadays, too much riff-raff around.”</p>
<p>“You’re the fuckin’ worst, man,” Axl spits out, manuevering around his kitchen counter to toss Steven a rolled bag of chips. “Eat up, you look half dead.”</p>
<p>Izzy knows the color is drained from his face. To his right, Steven is gnawing away at the chips, oblivious to the trembling shakes running through Izzy’s entire body. His mind. The fucker read his mind, there’s a strong possibility he’s seen everything, all the shit Izzy has tried to bury under lock and key and this stranger knows, what if he tells Stevie— </p>
<p>“Hey,” Izzy snaps his attention, dazed and fragmented as it is, to Axl at his side. “I know how ya’ feel. Some, at least. He won’t do it again though, there are rules in the house.”</p>
<p>A snort escapes Slash and though his eyes are shielded, Izzy is certain he’s staring daggers at the back of Axl’s head. “Stupid ass rules, yeah.” He turns to Izzy, crosses his arms like a petulant child. “I can’t read minds after the initial meeting. Which is bullshit because I can’t see memories anyway. Your precious secrets are safe from little ‘ole me.” </p>
<p>“So you can just, like, turn it off whenever you want?” Steven’s voice is filled with wonder and Izzy knows he’s got no right to the wave of jealousy that has him picturing Slash decomposing slowly in front of them.</p>
<p>“Well,” Slash drawls, “I guess you could call it that. More like tunin’ to a different radio channel if you catch my drift, sweetheart.” </p>
<p>The potted fern in the corner of the room wilts before the words have fully left his mouth, leaves curling in on themselves, vibrant green bleeding to brittle brown. Izzy forces himself to breathe through the pounding rush of blood to his head, the possessiveness squeezing his throat tight. </p>
<p>“Anyone care to explain that?” Duff sounds more curious than scared, head tilted as he examines the plant from his spot at the table.</p>
<p>“At least I ain’t gotta water the damn thing anymore,” Axl mutters. </p>
<p>Duff glances at him, smiles. “I was the one watering it, let’s tell it like it is.” Axl laughs, hand pushing against the side of Duff’s wrist and Izzy raises an eyebrow at the same time Slash gags.</p>
<p>“It’ll be fucking amazing to not be trapped with just these two anymore, I swear,” he groans, pulling his glasses off to toss on the table. </p>
<p>Steven shifts beside him, Izzy can see the corners of his mouth twitching. “We’re glad to be of service.”</p>
<p>“Nah, Steven is. I won’t be staying.” He drums his fingers against the hard surface of Axl’s kitchen counter, avoids Steven’s eyes burning into the side of his face. “Places to go, shit to do, all that good stuff.”</p>
<p>Slash cocks his head, smirks. “What, don’t wanna be part of our big happy family?”</p>
<p>He scoffs, can’t help the scorn painting his voice, “I’m not exactly what you’d call a team player, Stash.”</p>
<p>Izzy watches those dark eyes narrow to near slits. “It’s Slash.”</p>
<p>“Sure it is.” And now he’s positive Steven is frowning at him for refusing to play nice with his new pals. “Like I said, I’m just blowin’ through town, thought I’d do Stevie here a favor.”</p>
<p>The combined weight of everyone staring at him has Izzy gritting his teeth, jaw clenched around defensive insults. His hand twitches toward the flask tucked away inside his jacket pocket. Steven’s disappointment in him radiates through the air, thick enough to choke on.</p>
<p>“You need to use the restroom before takin’ off?” </p>
<p>Axl’s words are blasé, tone nonchalant, but his eyes are knowing. Izzy nods once, follows the tilt of Axl’s head down the hallway. </p>
<p>He shuts the door, wastes no time in emptying his flask as he sits on the tub’s edge and talks himself into leaving. </p>
<p>+</p>
<p>Steven has always been told people are cruel, that the world is vicious and eats the helpless. </p>
<p>Steven knows it to be true. He knows, and yet he’s always thought that people, irredeemable and unrepentant, have the greatest potential for beauty.</p>
<p>His parents had done all they could to shield him from life. They’d protected him with steel gates, locked doors, jackets and rules. They called him magnificent, a miracle, yet taught him how to stuff pieces of himself down deep and out of sight where no one could see them. They told him he had nothing to fear but shut him away from the outside. For all their love, they still held him down every day to bind his wings until he was old enough to stand the pain of tying his unused bones flat against his back. </p>
<p>Growing up with the ability to crush concrete, metal, bone between his bare hands had been challenging. The strength was harder to manage when Steven was younger, but he’d learned to control it. He’d thought like an idiot that maybe then he could blend in with everyone else. That he could attempt a normal life.</p>
<p>Steven should’ve known better.</p>
<p>He will never forget his parents’ faces, even though he hopes they manage to forget their freakish runaway son.</p>
<p>He won’t ever forget the isolation or the feeling of being trapped in his own body, of digging for years to reach someone else he could become.</p>
<p>Steven knows he’ll never erase the smell of blood.</p>
<p>Standing here now, staring down the hallway where Izzy disappeared, Steven thinks he could try. He wants to know flight, wants the free fall. </p>
<p>“He always that charming?” Slash’s voice sounds by his side and it’s still weird to be around so many new people at once.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he responds, letting his fondness for Izzy color the answer.</p>
<p>“No, I mean—”</p>
<p>“I know what you meant.” Steven moves after Izzy, ignores Duff and Axl’s quiet whispering and the feel of Slash’s eyes on his back. He raises his fist, knocks twice.</p>
<p>“It’s me, Izz. Let me in?” </p>
<p>There’s a pause and then the door swings open. Steven smiles because a small part of him had feared Izzy might not answer. Might leave the locked door between them. But he’s there, hip cocked against the door frame as his dark eyes shift from Steven to the spot above his head like he can’t force himself to look for long.</p>
<p>“They’ll think we’re gettin’ up to something if I let you in.” It’s a lame attempt at humor, Izzy winces after the words come out.</p>
<p>“What exactly would we be getting up to, Izz? Thought you were way out of my league,” and despite the lightness in his tone, Steven still sees Izzy tense, fingers flexing against the dark fabric of his jeans. </p>
<p>His mouth presses into a grim line as he steps back, jerks his head to signal Steven in. Their shoulders brush when Steven pushes past and he tries not to take it personal, the little flinch Izzy can’t stifle or hold back at the touch. </p>
<p>Steven hops on the counter, scoots until his back is notched against the sink faucet. He kicks his feet back and forth, holding Izzy’s gaze without speaking. Drumming fingers against his thighs, Steven nods once, braces himself before lifting the hem of his shirt and tugging it up and over his head. </p>
<p>“What the hell, Stevie, I was just joking!” </p>
<p>Steven can’t help but grin when his head re-emerges from underneath the rolled shirt as he tosses it beside him. “Chill, dude, I’m not trying to jump your bones.”</p>
<p>Izzy’s arms are crossed uncomfortably tight over his thin chest, lips twitching at the corners between a smirk and a half-frown. “Coulda fooled me…” The words trail and Steven pinpoints the exact moment Izzy notices the wrappings on his back and the odd makeshift harness hooked around Steven’s chest, the leather strap biting into his skin. </p>
<p>Steven sees the second Izzy’s dark eyes catch on the ridges of muscle and bone pushed down, the misshapen edges of leathery wings. </p>
<p>“Steven,” he breathes, takes a step forward, eyes widening as Steven’s wings shift and flex beneath their confines. His hand lifts in the air between them before stopping, fingers curling back towards Izzy’s palm as he swallows. </p>
<p>Steven won’t allow himself time to think or question; he grabs Izzy's hand and refuses to let go. He feels the tension, the fear, as Izzy rears back to pull away but he moves with him, fingertips resting on Izzy’s wrist, picking up the pulse points frantic beat.</p>
<p>“It’s okay.” Izzy just stares so Steven repeats the words. “It’s okay, Izzy. Do you want to see?”</p>
<p>The focus of Izzy’s gaze is drawn back to Steven’s shoulder blades in the bathroom mirror. Steven watches him lick his lips, head bobbing in the affirmative. Steven strokes the inside of his wrist lightly, reassurance in the form of touch. He draws his hand back slow because he still is afraid Izzy will bolt at a quick movement. </p>
<p>The harness goes first, Steven sighs at the buckle unclipping and falling heavy behind him. His hands fumble with the wrappings, layers of gauze and tape unraveling in spools around his thighs as he unwinds strip after strip until he feels like he can breathe again. The hardest part comes next, the stretch of unused wing away from the shelter his body provides, flexing the bone with shocks of pain that leave him gripping the counter white-knuckled.</p>
<p>A sound low in the throat of distress and Steven glances at a pale-faced Izzy whose lips are bloodless. He looks torn, like Steven’s pain is visceral to him, as if he wants to rip it away from them both. Steven grants a tiny smile to reassure him but it only makes Izzy wince and move closer, hovering over the edges of Steven’s space. </p>
<p>“They’re not the prettiest things, I know, but,” Steven shrugs, feels the battered wings roll with the motion. </p>
<p>He’s telling the truth. They aren’t glorious, aren’t beautiful and breathtaking, have no feathers or iridescent veins shot through them. They’re tar black, thick and scarred, huge when unfurled from the narrow space they’re crammed into most times. </p>
<p>Bat wings. Steven tries to face himself in the mirror but somehow still cannot manage it. </p>
<p>He expects a joke, something to break the ice or acknowledge what he just said. He should know better, should’ve expected Izzy to zero in on the left wing’s base, the thick scar and mottled coloring off put by the crooked set of bone. </p>
<p>“What happened?” </p>
<p>“I got hurt,” is the simple answer. Steven waits in anticipation.</p>
<p>“By who?”</p>
<p>“Everything,” he says. “But in the end, I’m the one who tried to cut it off.” He breathes out the whimper he’d been trying to swallow down. “I was twelve. My parents found me before I could finish.”   </p>
<p>“Fuck, Steven, I don’t—”</p>
<p>“I just want you to know I get it.” The acid in his throat rises, stomach clenching but he says it, forces it out. “I know what it’s like to hate a part of yourself so much you’d bleed to get rid of it. I know what it’s like to think something about yourself makes you a monster.”</p>
<p>A hand on his jaw forces his face up to meet Izzy’s eyes, dark and clear. “Stevie, sweetheart, you are the farthest thing from a monster.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he whispers. Izzy’s hands are cold, thumb tracing under the hollows of Steven’s eyes, wiping tears he isn’t shedding. “Hard to say when they look like this.”</p>
<p>“Not everything’s gotta be pretty to be worth somethin’,” Izzy replies. </p>
<p>Those words mean more than Steven can say. He doesn’t try to find an answer just yet, instead placing a hand over Izzy’s on his cheek. Trusting. </p>
<p>“Stay with me,” he whispers. “Please.”</p>
<p>There’s a pause where all of Izzy’s protests and reasons to be left alone hang in the air between them. Steven can count them all, can hear each one. In the end, none are spoken. </p>
<p>In the end, Izzy nods, resting their foreheads together tight enough to squeeze out the empty space between them. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>